


The Lights in Chicago

by btBatt



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, The Youngblood Chronicles (Music Video)
Genre: Gen, post YBC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 20:15:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2480993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/btBatt/pseuds/btBatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post YBC fic, inspired by "I got troubled thoughts and the self-esteem to match." by lucifersneezing. Post-Young Blood Chronicles fic, set in a universe where all of the members somehow survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lights in Chicago

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I got troubled thoughts, and the self-esteem to match.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091881) by [lucifucker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker). 



> Don't ask how they're alive here. Doesn't matter. Elton John granted them a pardon or some shit idk.

Needless to say, nothing’s the same when they get back. And they can’t…it’s not like they can just pretend everything’s normal. Each of them is admitted to the hospital at least overnight to make sure surface wounds aren’t more serious than they seem. Patrick’s preliminary hospital stay lasts about a week and a half. Pete doesn’t want to leave his side and, surprisingly enough, Joe’s almost just as bad. Andy has to coax them out of the room one at a time to convince them to bathe or eat (but never both at the same time; one of them insists on being by Patrick’s bed always).

A lot of Patrick’s insides are…nowhere to be seen. When the doctor pulls them aside, outside of Patrick’s room and shuts the door behind them, and tells them his theories (their blood results showed high red cell counts with gamma strain Vitamin B molecules, classic indicators of cannibalism), Andy gets sick right there in the hallway. If Joe’d still been harboring any harsh feelings towards their lead singer for nearly choking him out, well, they vanish in that moment. Pete stands still, very still as the doctor explains that he’s sorry, but they’re all going to have to get some more psychological testing done after this. To the hospital’s credit, they’re being amazingly chill about the whole situation, treating them all as victims instead of suspects. After the carnage the police uncovered, the hellish things the reports don’t even begin to capture with their clinical words, it’s been easier than any of them thought to get the help and support they need. Nobody blames them for needing to check out the cannibalism evidence, anyway. That’s what any logical person would do. Pete knows this, somewhere in the back of his head, but he still finds himself shaking his head so fast that his tears come out sideways.

“You think we could do that to Patrick?” he growls. “What kind of sick _fucks_ do you think—” He breaks off, voice wrecked with emotion.

Joe clutches at his arm and looks up at him and fuck, fuck, Pete knows. He knows and Joe looks so goddamn young right now that Pete shuts his mouth and nods, wearily. Before the doctor can say anything else—because Pete really cannot handle it right now, okay, he’s running on negative hours of sleep and is an asshole at the best of times—he turns on his heel and slips back into Patrick’s private room and the chair next to his bed. He figures someone else can get their crazy tested first.

Patrick comes out of it with a single kidney, no spleen, a patchwork stomach and some missing length of intestine. But…he’ll live, which the doctors have been reassuring them all along, but now it seems true for the first time. He’s fitted with a prosthetic hand and loaded up on a cocktail of medications (for the pain, the missing spleen, at least one pill for mild anxiety) and finally—fucking _finally_ —sent home. “Home” being Pete’s house, and it’s not just him. The guys have all been using it as home base, slowly bringing bag after bag of things from their own houses and building a nest. No one can quite wrap their head around the concept of being safe, and it just doesn’t feel right to be apart right now. Being thrust back into normality is too disorienting to think about doing alone.

They never really talk it out, but Pete assures and reassures that it’s okay, encourages the guys that there’s enough room and beds for everyone.

When Pete drives Patrick to his condo to help him pack up a few bags, the first thing Patrick goes for is his Gretsch. He stands there in his living room, clutching the neck in his right hand looking like a lost puppy. Pete finally catches up to him, rounds the corner just in time to see Patrick’s face crumple. Pete walks forward and wraps his arms around Patrick, the guitar caught awkwardly in between their bodies.

“’Trick…”

“I can’t _play,_ ” Patrick gasps, sounding panicked. “What am I supposed to do if I can’t play?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Pete whispers. It’s the second time Patrick cries. It’s the first time that he’s cried when he’s not out of his mind with sedatives, and it comes out in sobs that threaten to pop the last of his stitches. Pete just holds him and rubs his back as he tells him that they’ll be okay.

In the end, they stuff two suitcases, a backpack, a keyboard, and the guitar into Pete’s car. For the first couple of days, Patrick sits in front of the keyboard, cursing under his breath hitting the keys a little too hard. He keeps his left wrist cradled against his chest, but every few bars it twitches toward the instrument because Patrick’s subconscious mind knows for a fact that this song would be easier to play with two hands. He manages to get out a few melodies that sound like something at least, and the pain in his chest eases after that.

On day number four of Having Instruments Back, Joe and Patrick sit in the living room all day with a six pack of RedBull and “no distractions, I mean it, Wentz.” For a good hour they stare at Patrick’s guitar, talking over the problems here and what can be done to combat them. They tune the Stump-O-Matic to a chord (Patrick holds the neck between his thighs, reaches down to pluck the strings with his right hand and then reaches up to turn the tuning keys) and then manipulate Patrick’s prosthetic hand so that the index finger holds all of the string down (they end up having to tape some styrofoam wrap around it and he’s got to use more arm muscles to stabilize, but it…works). Of course, this process means that he can only play certain chords (all barre chords and whatever chord the guitar is tuned to), but it’s better than nothing. Patrick can kind of still play the guitar. If (when) they end up playing shows again, he’s going to need about ten different guitars lined up and waiting for him with all the crazy tunings he’ll need, but. But he’ll be able to play. And thank God Patrick’s the rhythm guitarist, because Joe can pick up most of his slack and still get melodies out. They also learn that writing music isn’t as much of a nightmare as they’d imagined it was going to be. Joe’s got a pretty good ear and if Patrick hums right, it usually doesn’t take too many tries for Joe to translate it to the guitar. Patrick grabs Joe by the shoulder and hauls him in for a hug, lingering like they often do nowadays.

“Thank you,” he says reverently. “Thank you, fucking thank you, Joe, I’m so sorry.”

Joe doesn’t have to ask what he’s apologizing for. It happens a lot. “Not your fault, man. Just glad you’re back.”

And, okay, Pete’s known that Patrick’s amazing and generally a quick learner, but this is it. Patrick Vaughn Stumph is the most amazing person on the face of the entire planet. He tells everyone with an Internet connection (and makes a few phone calls to people who don’t).

Gabe’s the first person they let come visit. He brings beer and twelve boxes of pizza and yeah, he’s an obnoxious motherfucker, but he’s also a really good dude. He doesn’t ask for details they don’t want to give but doesn’t accept anyone’s bullshit attitude about it now because they’re all home safe and sound. And, shit, Gabe looks just so fucking happy that they’re all home safe and sound. He stays for a day and a half, gathering everyone onto the couch and almost managing to get his arms around all four of them, the lanky bastard.

Things seem a little better after that. Patrick’s able to return to his role as the stable one, the rock. Joe still wakes up screaming a lot, but Andy sleeps in his room now, talks him down when it happens and stays up until they’re both convinced that they’re safe. Patrick’s moved into Pete’s room, but he’s glad to say that it’s more for Pete’s sake than his own.

Pete’s always had some issues with insomnia, but it’s always always worse when stress is added into the equation. He’s been basically fine for the past couple of years, since he’s mellowed out a little with age and matured. The trauma brings it back full force and then some. Patrick’s ashamed to say that he doesn’t notice the extent of it until he’s gotten some of his shit together. It only takes three days of gentle prodding and one fight to convince Pete that he needs to go back to seeing his psychiatrist. The fact that he gives in so easily is a true sign of his weariness.

“I’d been doing so well without that shit,” Pete signs, slumping against Patrick’s shoulder as the fight drains out of him, still red-faced from screaming.

“I know,” Patrick says reasonably. “You still are. We all need a little extra help right now, Pete. We’ll get better.”

Pete nods, but Patrick doesn’t think he really believes him. He doesn’t know if they’ll ever get “better,” per se. It’s just what they keep telling each other so they don’t all swan dive off the roof. Some days it’s the best lie he can come up with.

Even with new medication, Patrick wakes up in the middle of the night to Pete scribbling feverishly into a notebook, no lights on, or to an empty bed and he has to get up to find Pete wandering the halls or tucked into a hall closet somewhere, hood around his head and eyes unfocused. Patrick tugs on his sleeve gently and makes him lay down, holds him there and touches his shoulder, his hair (I’m right here, we’re okay, just sleep, man, you’re gonna be fine). But it’s okay, because they’ve all got their things now, their reactions to what they’ve been through. Joe tried to wear a turtleneck and it only served to send him into a panic attack with the way it hugged his throat (“I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, Andy, Andy, get it off, _I can’t breathe oh God._ ”). Andy, for his part, is maybe the most okay, but Andy’s always been the most okay. He’s jumpier than he’s ever been, sure, but the PTSD manifests itself more in long bouts of silence and spaced-out stares. They all do their best to pull him out of the morose moods, start a conversation or just make some noise with whatever they’re doing to bring him back. Patrick is okay, really, except for the few times when someone turns on music very loudly and very suddenly and he ends up crouched by a wall, shaking, before he even knows what’s happening. It took Pete twenty minutes to find him the first time, to walk into the kitchen to grab a soda and see Patrick shaking uncontrollably. It took him nearly forty-five minutes after that to clam him down enough to get an explanation, and that’s only after Pete pulls up the camera on his phone and shows Patrick the reflection of his eyes (blue-grey, no yellow).

It takes a lot longer than Patrick would like (than any of them would like because they’re all getting antsy as hell in this house) to start writing new things again, to talk about getting back out there. It’s a slow process that waits for all of them to be mostly ready. Pete’s last to get his head in the game. While he’s been writing since the hospital staff decided it was safe enough to hand him a pen, it hasn’t been anything coherent. Certainly nothing that could be used as lyrics. It takes months to find the right balance of medications and even out his head, let him sleep through (most of) the night.

One day, they all just sort of fire into studio mode with little-to-no warning. They call the label and get a studio booked for them to use on incredibly short notice. They camp out there for about a week, eating shit food and screaming in the booth until five AM. It’s a lot like when they first started the band and had to get the recording done as quickly as possible because they paid for the studio by the hour and holy shit, they did not have the money for that.

This is a little different because it’s just a frenzy of energy and the beats of footsteps chasing them and guitar riffs like the maniacs’ chanting for their deaths. They’re fucking inspired and it’s magical. They’re kind of on fire.

Pete calls up the Panic! kids to ask if they’ll do a show with them. They get a resounding “yes” and dates are moved around fairly easily. They all practice a lot, but Joe and Patrick are up until the early hours of the morning hashing up and redistributing guitar parts. It’s easier with the new songs (they were written with Patrick’s predicament in mind) and it’s mostly the older songs that give them trouble. They get it worked out eventually, though they have to recruit Pete’s help on a couple of songs so they can keep everything more-or-less the same (even if some of the guitar notes are played from a bass).

Brendon comes on stage for “20 Dollar Nosebleed” and both he and Patrick sit at the keyboard to play. Pete’s commentary is nothing unusual, though he does throw in some jokes about Patrick becoming a diva as he points out the dozen or so guitars he has lined up on stage. At the end of the show they have Brendon come back out, along with Spencer and Dallon, and they get into a massive group hug that leaves both bands, the crew, and every single fan in tears and clutching at one another.

Some fans are still behind the venue when they start tear down and they stay and sign some things, give some autographs. At one point an overemotional kid launches herself and Joe, wraps her arms around his throat. He lets out this noise somewhere between a shout and a chocked-off grunt that’s got security on them in record time. He pulls the girl away gently and Joe staggers back, eyes wide and hands against his neck. Pete looks murderous and Andy doesn’t look like he’ll stop Pete if he launches at the girl, but it’s actually Patrick that steps up beside Joe, puts a hand on his shoulder and rubs it soothingly. They head back to the bus and wait inside while Pete and Andy sign a few more things.

That night’s spent in Pete’s house, with special guest appearances from Panic! at the Disco. They get enough Chinese food to rival Gabe’s twelve pizzas and set up a marathon of foreign films that are just way too fucking cool to be Western works. They have to pull in an extra coffee table and the chairs from the dining room, and they pool their resources to get all of the blankets and pillows into the living room, but it’s totally worth it. Brendon ends up stripping for them from atop the table and right before he goes to yank his boxers down (sexily, of course), Spencer grabs him around the waist and hauls him back to the couch because maybe Brendon’s had a bit to drink and Spencer’s just protecting his virtue, okay?

They must all drop off to sleep at the same time (or just be too drunk to notice their friends passing out around them). Patrick wakes up on the floor in a puddle of PeteandBrendon. They’re half slouched against the couch and bundled up in an insulated sleeping bag (the kind hunters use when they sleep outdoors). Patrick lifts a hand to run his fingers through the mop of Brendon’s hair that’s right in his face. Unfortunately, he lifts the left hand. The material of the prosthetic isn’t exactly like skin, so it sticks and catches the tiniest bit against Brendon’s scalp.

Brendon’s eyes flutter in confusion before he cranes his neck back to look at Patrick sleepily. He grins, a toned-down version of his dazzling smile. It’s softer, just for the two of them to see.

“Hey, man,” Brendon says, voice rough from disuse (and dehydrated from alcohol, no doubt).

“Hi.”

Brendon reaches up and detangles Patrick’s hand from his hair. Patrick smiles gratefully as Brendon turns the limb over in his hand. He stays quiet for longer than is normal, but Patrick doesn’t rush him, just observes as Brendon finds the seam between flesh and plastic.

“I thought I’d lost you guys,” he admits quietly, grin slipping as his eyes find Patrick’s again, “but you guys made it.”

Patrick blinks, looks around the room at the piles of full-grown men sleeping on top of one another like puppies. Joe’s on the ground in a dome of blankets and Andy’s on the couch right above him, like a short, tattooed guardian angel or something. Dallon’s using Joe’s cocooned ass as a pillow and Spencer looks like he had engaged Joe in a fight for the blankets and lost. He smiles, remembering. He remembers his first one-handed shower, the first tattoo Andy got afterwards to commemorate the whole thing, Joe’s first genuine laugh after coming home, the first time Patrick woke up to find that Pete was still sleeping next to him, and thank fuck because he hadn’t slept in about three days. Patrick smiles again.

“Yeah, I think we did, didn’t we?”


End file.
